


Brothers or Whatever (Softer Pillow Mix)

by inalasahl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Episode: s05e22 Swan Song, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-16
Updated: 2010-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-09 12:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inalasahl/pseuds/inalasahl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's always had a care for Dean's heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brothers or Whatever (Softer Pillow Mix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [girlguidejones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlguidejones/gifts).
  * Inspired by [God or Whatever](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/814) by girlguidejones. 



> Betaed by llaras. Spoilers through the season five finale.

_Sam falls, Michael above him, Adam's facial expressions rapidly cycling through anger-shock-fear-sorrow-determination. "Hang on, baby brother," Michael says and catches Sam up. Angels may know how to fly, but Winchesters don't._

"I'm not Lucifer," Sam says.

"I know," Michael says. "But he is in there." He shifts his grip on Sam as if he's contemplating dropping him. It doesn't seem as if it would matter. There's nothing like a bottom visible. "He is well?"

"Is Adam?" Sam says. Stars streak past them like the bars of a cage.

Dean wakes with a start. He doesn't know why he keeps having these dreams, but knows they could be worse. He's not dreaming of Sam being tortured, being  no, he's not thinking about it either. There's a crack on the ceiling, and Dean makes a mental note to patch and paint it after Lisa leaves for work.

He swings his feet out of bed. He's up, might as well make breakfast for Ben and Lisa.

* * *

Ben gulps down the last swallow of juice in his glass, and jumps up to hand it to Dean, who's rinsing off his own breakfast dishes and putting them in the dishwasher. "Thanks," Dean says absentmindedly. "Oof," he grunts, as Ben suddenly whips back around, and folds him in a tight hug.

"Breakfast was great," Ben says.

Dean pats him on the head with a laugh. "Glad you think so."

Lisa clears her throat. "You'd better get going, honey. You don't want to be late."

Ben slings his backpack over one shoulder and walks out.

Dean finishes putting the dishes in the dishwasher and turns to put his arms around Lisa. "What time's your shift?" he asks. "You need me to pick Ben up from school?"

"I think you should go." Dean doesn't know what to say. "Ben's getting attached to you, and it's not fair to him, Dean, not when you're going to leave." Lisa pulls away.

"I'm not going anywhere," Dean says. "I swear."

She heaves a sigh. "I know that whatever went down was bad, Dean, and I know you think you're out. But time passes, and you'll start feeling better."

"I won't leave, Lisa "

"Even if you did stay, you don't want to be here," she says softly. "Not really, and that's not fair to me."

Dean has no argument for that. He sits down heavily at the table. "I have nowhere to go."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Can I wait and say goodbye to Ben?"

"I wish you wouldn't."

* * *

It's habit that has Dean pulling Sam's duffel out of the trunk along with his own when he gets to the motel, and habit that has him pulling out Sam's clothes, too, when he decides to head to the laundromat.

It's when he finds his old amulet tucked inside the toe of a sock that he realizes what he's doing. "Son of a bitch." He traces his fingers over the amulet. Sam's always been such a girl. Figures he'd retrieve it. _("If they got Mom, they can get Dad. If they can get Dad, they can get us." "It's not like that. Okay, Dad's fine. We're fine. Trust me.")_

He sinks down next to the duffel and picks up a shirt. It still smells like Sam, and it's been so long, so damn long, he'd almost forgotten what Sam smells like. He buries his face in the shirt with one hand and fumbles at his jeans. He can't feel guilty about this anymore, not when Sam's never going to be around ever again to possibly find out and be hurt by it. He strips his cock hard and fast, gasping into the shirt. "Sam, Sam." He doesn't feel any better when it's over, but falls asleep more easily than he has all week, there on the floor of the room.

* * *

_Sam and Michael stand on a comet, streaking through space. The wind blows Sam's hair back from his face. "I could fight you now," Michael says._

Sam shrugs.

Michael makes no move to pull his sword out. "I'm sorry you're here," he says. "I never wanted it to end like this."

Sam shrugs again. "I didn't like the way it was supposed to end anyway."

He hadn't pulled the blackout curtains earlier, and the setting sun focuses like a laser on Dean's face, through the other thinner curtain, waking Dean up before nightfall. He's sore, but less so than he often is after a hunt. He washes his hand off, and decides there's still time to head to the laundromat. He deliberately leaves out three of Sam's shirts, but takes the rest. At the bottom of Sam's duffel he discovers one of Chuck's books. It's odd that Sammy would have kept that one. He takes it with him.

It's dark by the time Dean gets to the laundromat. The florescent light is weird and strangely bright, but familiar. What isn't familiar is the lack of sound next to him, telling him he should be sorting, and the way he doesn't seem to have enough hands as he fumbles the quarters and the detergent and the clothes.

It's late enough that there's an unoccupied chair once Dean finally gets everything wrestled into place, the washing machine chugging along. He looks at the book he'd tucked into his jacket. "All Hell Breaks Loose. Catchy."

> Sam is abducted by the Yellow-Eyed Demon with other children who have special abilities. The Demon has brought them together to initiate his endgame: an all-out war against the human race. Dean enlists Bobby's help to find Sam before the battle begins, but arrives too late. Dean must deal with the aftermath and pays a steep price.

Oh. That one, Dean thinks. Why the hell would Sammy want to revisit that? He cracks open the first page. _"Hey, don't forget the extra onions this time, huh?" Dean said, as he handed a bill to his brother. Sam pursed his lips. They were planning to drive all night, which meant that the sacks would smell of onions, and in turn the car would, as they wouldn't be stopping anywhere to throw them away._

Dean had eaten extra onions, just that evening, right before he'd gone to the laundromat. No one had commented on it. There hadn't been anyone there to do so. He reaches into his jacket and pulls his flask out as surreptitiously as possible, not that anyone is watching him. He takes a long swig before returning to the book.

_"You save my life over and over. I mean, you sacrifice everything for me. Don't you think I'd do the same for you? You're my big brother. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you. I don't care what it takes. I'm going to get you out of this. Guess I've got to save your ass for a change."_

Dean can't keep going. He shuts the book with a snap, eyes flicking toward the long-stopped dryer. He pulls out his cellphone to call Chuck, but all he gets is voice mail. Guy's probably passed out. "Hey, it's Dean, figure you probably saw it all by now. So, uh, I don't know if you're still publishing or whatever. I just wanted to let you know that uh, you could. I want people to read 'em. People should know what Sammy did, even if they think it's a story." He gathers his things and heads back to the motel.

* * *

_The comet has become a mountain, a haze of pink snow falling around them, catching on Sam's eyelashes, making him blink. The wind lashes the snow around, sending it up his nose and into his mouth, when he gasps for breath. Michael steps toward him then, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. The air and snow bend around them. "I used to have these dreams," Sam says. "Visions."_

Michael nods as if to say that he knows, Adam's face oddly slack, expressionless.

"Mostly, they were of things that were going to happen, but there was one ... I used to dream of a heart beating and then stopping. I never really knew what it meant."

"Angels don't dream," Michael says. "But I saw your face before you were ever born, saw what you would become."

"You never saw this," Sam says.

"I never did." The snow is changing color, shifting from pink to lavender. "I miss my brothers," Michael says.

The ringing of the motel phone startles Dean enough that he almost knocks it to the floor as he tries to grab the receiver. "Mr. Peterik?"

"Yeah?"

"This is the front desk. UPS just dropped off a package for you."

Dean frowns. "Who's it from?"

The woman on the other end huffs a bored sigh. "The return address lists a Chuck Shurley?"

"Yeah, okay. I'll be there in a moment."

The box is large and heavy, and Dean knows, just knows, what's going to be in it. Figures Chuck would know where he was and what he needed before even Dean did. He gets it back to the room and opens it up with the tip of a knife. Ninety-one books, minus the one that'd been in Sam's duffel, plus 12 binder-clipped print-outs, helpfully labeled "draft."

The type swims before his eyes, and Dean tells himself that it's because it's too small. He gets the aspirin out of his duffel bag and tosses the bottle on the night stand. His head hurts. Dean crawls back under the covers and closes his eyes. He doesn't feel much like reading a book just now.

* * *

_The mountain has become a volcano. Ash swirls around Sam and Michael; lava runs over their feet. Sam winces in pain, but stays upright. His feet aren't burning away to a crisp. "How long was Lucifer in here?" he asks._

"Longer than a human like you could conceive in your tiny little brain." He scoops up some lava and rolls it into a ball, tossing it back and forth between his hands. "Sorry," he says. "A long time. Did you hear him ask me to walk away, step off the chess board?" Sam nods. "I wish I had."

"I wish I hadn't wasted so much time after Dean came back," Sam says.

When Dean wakes up, he plugs in Sam's laptop, not sure what he's looking for. He clicks randomly on a few documents, finds old college papers, scans of crumbling lore books, Sam's journal. All the useless, no-longer-needed information that darted through Sam's life over the years. He didn't even know Sam kept a journal, though he should have. Sam was always so much like Dad. He scrolls through it casually, finds it reads a lot like Dad's, also, lots of notes on herbs good for the heart, hellhounds, demons, angels, not a lot of personal detail.

Wait. Herbs good for the heart? He scrolls back up and stops when "rawhead" catches his eye. _("One of Dad's friends, Joshua, he called me back. Told me about a guy in Nebraska, a specialist." "You're not going to let me die in peace, are you?" "I'm not going to let you die period.")_ Dean barely remembers it anymore. Actually dying has wiped away some of the vividness of the close calls over the years. It's not really a catalog of their hunts, Dean realizes. It's Sam's research into ways to save Dean. He digs through the box of books. With the help of the blurbs on their backs, it doesn't take much time to find it.

> While battling a demon, Dean is electrocuted, resulting in permanent damage to his heart and leaving him with only a couple of months to live. A despondent Sam searches desperately for a way to save his brother and believes he may have found an answer through a preacher who claims to heal the incurable.

_Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub  Silence._

Sam wakes with a start. The bed next to his is mockingly empty. Dean's still in the hospital, dying. And Dad ... Sam's pretty sure he's on his own. He gets out his father's journal, and scans it again for phone numbers. Someone's going to have the answer. Someone has to.

It feels like a miracle when Joshua calls.

Dean stops for a moment, considers. He thinks he might need more alcohol for this. He'd better go pick up a couple of six-packs first.

* * *

_When they got back to the hotel and parked, Sam had to stop himself from going around to Dean's side of the car to get the door._

Dean reads about Sam cleaning up the hotel room after he'd been cured, getting rid of all the fast food bags, pill bottles, medical books and print-outs. He looks around the room he's in, and wishes there were two beds. It looks pretty close to the same otherwise, pizza boxes on the floor instead of take-out bags, the Winchester Gospels instead of medical textbooks, only one bottle of pills. He pads into the bathroom and grabs all the towels off of the rack and piles them under his pillows, the way Sam had done for him the last time every breath seemed to take so much effort.

If he doesn't think too hard about it, he can pretend that Sam's just in the bathroom. He picks the book back up.

_Dean's skin is ashen. He gasps for air. He has just enough time to look frightened before he collapses._

Sam jerks awake, fiercely glad to discover he's been having a nightmare. Dean's bed is empty, but he can hear the shower running. He swings out of bed, and begins packing his laptop and the books away, gets out his change of clothes and waits.

Dean's surprised to see him when he comes out: They've mostly worked out a system where Dean takes first shower, and then wakes Sam up. It's weird, but neither of them talks about why. They're not morning people, but Sam always used to find it easier to get up than Dean, who really only managed because he'd die before disobeying one of Dad's orders.

That was before Sam used to stay up for hours after every hunt looking for evidence online about the thing that killed Jess and their mother. Before Sam had nightmares about fires and flames that disturbed his sleep and woke him every 45 minutes. Before, just ... that was before.

"Rise and  Morning." Dean says, as he notices that Sam's already awake. "What?" It's such a change from his nightmare. Dean's skin is slightly pink, flushed from the hot water. He's animated, chest rising and falling, moving about the room, not sinking back, falling down, dying.

"You're alive," Sam says, he steps toward Dean and places his palm flat on Dean's chest. "Don't move," he says, waiting for it to get quiet enough that he can feel the soft thump under his hand.

"You're creeping me out, bitch."

"Jerk," Sam says reflexively. "Shh. I " He can feel it now, soft and strong and sure, and it makes him happier than he can remember being in the last year. "You're really alive." Dean exhales and Sam knows that he's about to crack a joke, move away, he's so put upon with his weepy, chick-flicky little brother. "We don't have to talk about it," Sam offers. "Just give me a minute." He can barely feel it, his hand is simply not sensitive enough. Maybe they can have a stethoscope sent to one of their drop boxes. In the meantime  he bends down over Dean's bare chest, and presses his lips against it, catches random dampness from a spot where's Dean's half-hearted swipes with the hotel towel missed and there, under his mouth, a beating heart, strong and regular and alive. He releases a sigh of relief, too happy to be chagrined, but he manages a quick "sorry" for Dean's sake, as he moves away.

Sam's never given much thought to Dean's facial expressions, he thinks as he moves into the bathroom. Dad was the one he always had to watch out for, but he suddenly wishes he had, because he doesn't know what it means, the look on Dean's face, the embarrassment he understands, but there's also something like fear, or something a little like hope, and how could it possibly be both?

* * *

No wonder the Beckys of the world are writing stories about him and Sam if that's the kind of thing Chuck includes. It sounds different from Sam's point of view, like Dean was fragile or something. He remembers the kiss, how hard it was to stay still for it. He doesn't remember thanking Sam for saving his life. He hopes he did, but Chuck probably would have written that down. Mostly, Dean remembers feeling ashamed that he was alive, when that Layla chick was going to die. Remembers thinking that it was such a waste when she had a mother who loved her, while Dean Dad's didn't even care enough to come around when he was dying, Remembers being half-afraid, half-resigned to Sam not sticking around forever. He'd get sick of Dean eventually and run again, for sure.

He's positive now. He never did thank Sam. He wishes he had. He'd do it now, if only Sam were here. He'd do a lot of things, if only Sam were here. He picks up another book.

* * *

_Sam sits on a seabed, idly dragging his fingers along the bottom. "Dean kissed me once," Sam says. His voice carries perfectly through the water. "He was pretty drunk, but I think he meant it." He looks a challenge at Michael. "I think I should have kissed him back. I wanted to."_

"God has reasons for everything," Michael says. "You know what's right, so does" He cocks his head, his eyes widening. "Father?"

The world dissolves.

When Dean opens the door at the knock, he's not the least bit surprised to see Sam standing on the other side, rain beating down on him. He's just surprised at how real the dream feels, but then maybe they're all this vivid during, just not once he wakes up. "Hi," Sam says stupidly. Dean steps back, letting Sam walk in. He gestures to the room, indicating Sam should sit down.

"Want a beer?" Dean asks as he closes the door. Sam nods. "How'd you find me?"

"Uh, Chuck called me."

Dean's not sure why he's arguing with dream logic, but cocks an eyebrow at Sam anyway. "Really? 'Cause your cell phone's in my glove box."

"He called the bar I happened to be drinking in." Sam looks around the room at the scattered books, and clothes, and empty pizza boxes. His tone is somewhere between sad and angry, hanging around disappointed, maybe. "Why aren't you at Lisa's, Dean?"

Dean sits down. "I was. She kicked me out."

"What? Why?"

"Because as much as I like her, like the idea of her and Ben, I wasn't in love with her."

Sam chews on his bottom lip. "I had a lot of time to think lately," he says. "Worked a few things out." He runs his hands through his hair, which doesn't seem to have grown any longer. "You " he stops, seems to change his mind about what he's going to say. "You're taking this pretty well. You're not in shock or anything?" His hazel green eyes are wide and scared.

Dean smirks a bit and takes a drink, as he sits on the bed next to Sam. Even in his dreams, Sam's all emo or whatever. "I'm okay, Sammy. Here. I'm gonna show you." Dean unbuttons his shirt, and reaches for Sam's right hand, pulling it up to rest over Dean's heart. "Steady as a drum." Maybe emo's contagious, because the next sentence escapes against his will. "Missed you, Sammy."

Sam lays his head on Dean's shoulder, his voice small and muffled. "I'm sorry I left you alone. I know  I know how it feels."

Dean's laugh is a little choked. "Yeah, I've been reading about that. You never told me half of what happened during the mystery spot thing," he says. He strokes Sam's head, like he used to do when Sam was little and had had a nightmare. "And no wonder you hooked up with Ruby when I was in hell." They sit there for awhile, and Dean decides he's not going to say anything else. He could just sit there forever with Sam pressed against him, and feel perfectly content.

"I had a lot of time to think," Sam says, his voice cautious, hesitant. "I wasn't sure how much time was passing, but I figured that maybe  maybe if it were like when you went to hell then if I found a way out, even if I was there a long time, I'd be back here before you even had to shave again. I thought about you a lot."

Dean tenses. "I didn't  I couldn't save you. I'm so sorry, Sammy." _("I tried everything! That's the truth. I tried opening the Devil's Gate. Hell, I tried to bargain, Dean, but no demon would deal, all right? You were rotting in hell for months,_ for months, _and I couldn't stop it. So, I'm sorry it wasn't me, all right? Dean, I'm sorry." "It's okay, Sammy. You don't have to apologize, I believe you.")_

"No, Dean, I know. I'm the one who made you promise not to. I wasn't being tortured or anything. It wasn't exactly like we thought. I just meant, I thought about you. I missed you," Sam breathes into Dean's shoulder. He lifts his head slowly, and moves toward Dean slowly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Dean inhales sharply, his nostrils filling with the smell of damp, and beer, and something that's just Sam. He doesn't care that it's a dream. He's going to take advantage of it while it lasts. He cups the back of Sam's head, pulling him toward Dean. He leans in and kisses him. It's a little like Dean remembers from that drunken New Year's after he sold his soul, slightly more minty perhaps, as if Sam had just brushed his teeth. "Sam," he breathes, pulling back just a little to mouth the words against Sam's jaw. "I want." _("If this is what you want  Is this really what you want?" "I let him out. I gotta put him back in.")_

"What, Dean?" Sam asks. "Anything."

"Fuck me," Dean says.

"I can do that." Sam's look is unexpectedly solemn, as his own hands come up to hold Dean's face. "You're sure? Swear it, Dean. You have to be sure."

In answer, his hands fumbled at Sam's pants, shaking too hard to actually accomplish anything. "It's okay," Sam says. "I'll do it." The sound Dean makes is not a whimper, he swears, as Sam moves away to take his clothes off, but Sam doesn't mock him for it. He just smiles gently at Dean. "I'm right here," he says. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean. Never again." Dean can't get his own clothes off either, so Sam helps him with that, too. There's no time to be embarrassed, though, because there's skin and more skin, and it's all touching against each other, and it's the best thing Dean's ever felt.

"Have you ever ... with a guy before?" Sam asks.

Dean nods, "Been awhile," he says. "A few years. You?"

"I did a little messing around in college, before I met Jess. You got anything?" Sam asks.

Lube, he means. Dean's embarrassed then. "No, I " Sam starts to move away, but Dean grips him hard and tugs. "Where are you going?"

"Just to check the bathroom for lotion or something," Sam says. "I'll be right back."

"No," Dean says. "No, you're not going." Dean can't bear it; he just knows that if Sam leaves, he'll wake up, or the dream will change into something else.

"Dean ..."

"I don't care," he says, gripping Sam even tighter, hard enough to leave a bruise, if this were real. Dream Sam winces realistically.

"Okay, okay," Sam says. "But we're going to have to change our plans a little. Not going to fuck you dry, or with just a little spit." He nuzzles Dean's chest, right where his heart should be. "Not going to hurt you anymore." Sam rolls them both onto their sides, facing each other, and aligns his groin to Dean's before wrapping both of their cocks in his large hand.

Dean grunts. The slip slide feels so good, and he scoots forward, mouthing Sam's neck, sucking hard and desperately, wishing this were real, wishing he could wake tomorrow and see marks all over Sam. Wishing he could wake tomorrow and see Sam.

"Love you," Dean says. "Love you so much, Sam." Over and over, until Sam's kissing him hard, wet and sloppy, taking the words from his mouth. Dean's hips jerk, his cock skidding between Sam's hand and cock. Both of their movements grow erratic, and then Dean's crying out with a loud groan.

Sam's quieter when he comes, almost like an after thought, his eyes and his attention seemingly fixed on Dean's face. Dean closes his eyes, gasps for breath, listens to Sam panting next to him. "You going to let me get a wash cloth?"

"No," Dean says. He pushes Sam's shoulder. "Roll over." Sam does so, and Dean wraps his arms around him, spooning, smoothing his hand over Sam's hip again and again.

"You're going to regret this tomorrow, when we wake up all sticky."

"Not going to sleep," Dean says.

"What?"

Dean licks Sam's shoulder, gently, just tasting him. "Don't want to wake up."

Sam shifts against him, pulling Dean's hand up to his mouth to kiss it. "This isn't a dream, Dean."

Dean snorts, but doesn't say anything. He just wants to lie there with Sam, not argue with him. Despite his intentions, he falls asleep anyway, the alcohol, the stress, his erratic sleep patterns, and the best orgasm of his life catching up to him all at once.

When he wakes up the next morning, Sam is still there, snoring away.

Sam wakes with a jerk when Dean throws a glassful of holy water in his face. Sam scrunches up his eyes and wipes his face against the bed sheets. "I should have expected that," he sighs. "So, what's next? Silver?" Wordlessly, Dean hands him a knife, and Sam sighs again, before running it across his arm. Dean makes Sam run through every test Dean can do in the motel room. He passes them all.

"You're really here," Dean breathes, running his hands over Sam with wonder, pausing a few times to feel the pulse ticking in Sam's jaw, the heartbeat in his chest, the throb in his wrist. Sam looks back at him with a face so full of love that it makes Dean's stomach twist. Dean swallows hard and looks away. "Last night, you didn't have to do that," he says.

"I wanted to."

"For me," Dean says, ashamed and sick. "You did it for me."

"For me," Sam says. "Because I wanted to." Sam curls himself around Dean, pulling him back against his chest. "I've always been kind of selfish, you know that."

"Not always," Dean says. He can still see Sam falling backwards. "I should have taken better care of you." _("It's like I had one job, that one job, and I screwed it up. I blew it, and for that, I'm sorry.")_

"Let's not start that again."

"No, I mean  all this time, Sam, I've been so focused on what I did for you, that I never saw the things you did for me, and I should have, I should have  All this time, I was taking care of you, but you were taking care of me, too."

Sam's look is grave, "Dean," he says, his hand cupped against Dean's jaw. "Love means never having to say you're sorry."

Dean's eyes narrow. "Bitch. I'm trying to be serious here."

Sam laughs. "I know it's been awhile since I've been around, but no chick-flick moments, remember?" Sam gets up, pulling gently out of Dean's grasping hands. "I'm going to take a shower." He leans over the bed to give Dean one last kiss. "Be happy. You're not the only one who's scared, okay?" Just before the door closes behind Sam, Dean hears it. "Jerk."

* * *

"Why now?" Dean asks, when they're in the car, the highway stretching out before them.

Sam looks at the road. He doesn't know where Dean's driving, and he doesn't really care. They could be driving anywhere, he realizes. They're not searching for anything or running from something. No one's dying, and the world isn't about to end. They've got no where to be and all the time in the world to get there. "Because we're going to do it right this time," Sam says finally. "No secrets, no lies, no running." He turns toward Dean. "No doubts."

"I feel like I've corrupted you," Dean whispers. "Like you're just following my lead, because you're my little brother, and you do that."

Sam laughs. "Of all the things I've been called over the years, obedient isn't one of them. You know that, Dean." Dean's lips twist, and his head dips for a moment in acknowledgement, but Sam can see he's still not convinced. "When I've followed you, Dean, it's because you've been leading me somewhere I wanted to go."

"The longest relationship I ever had lasted a month," Dean says. "I don't want to lose you again."

"The longest relationship you ever had lasted twenty-seven years," Sam replies. "And counting."

Fin

**Author's Note:**

> Jim Peterik is a member of the band Survivor and co-wrote "Eye of the Tiger."


End file.
